


Moraug's Lair

by Lady_Juno



Category: Sherlock (TV), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Gold Sickness, Joan Baggins, Mash-up, The Pool Scene, Thorin the Homeless, Treasure Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-24
Updated: 2014-07-24
Packaged: 2018-02-10 05:09:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2012160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Juno/pseuds/Lady_Juno
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>I will burn you. I'll burn the <b>heart</b> out of you.</i>
</p>
<p>I was still geeking out about <i>The Desolation of Smaug</i> (and writing tons of content for FtF) when the third season of BBC's <i>Sherlock</i> aired. So I took a break from The Hobbit... or so I thought. <br/>But Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman haunted my dreams, and I ended up with a mash-up world. I thought, "Wouldn't it be terrifying if the dragon were a psychopath?" And then I thought, "But if the dragon's a psychopath, then Thorin's a high-functioning sociopath. And if Thorin's a high-functioning sociopath (with your phone number) then Bilbo is obviously a loose-cannon doctor with a taste for adrenaline... and none of this is any fun if at least one of them isn't female, so...."<br/>Yeah. So, meet Moraug, my favorite psychopathic dragon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Moraug's Lair

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fogisbeautiful](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fogisbeautiful/gifts).



> Character Legend:  
> Thorin + Sherlock = Thorin the Homeless  
> Bilbo + John Watson + has to be a girl = Joan Baggins  
> Smaug + Moriarty = Moraug  
> Bard + Greg Lestrade = Bard Lestrade (Freelance Law Enforcer of Laketown)

"No, Joan." His blue eyes flashed, nearly angry in his desperation. "Stay there, do you hear me? Stay right where you are. _Don't_ follow me." His hand slid off her shoulder and she lurched forward with every apparent intention of ignoring his order.

"Thorin, you can't-"

"Keep her here," he ordered, backing away, further into the tunnel. Dwalin had a firm hold on Joan's arm by then, and he started to turn away. "I have to do this alone."

"Thorin, you can't do this! This is why you hired me! Please, please don't do this to me!" The halfling's voice was climbing in pitch and volume, cracking as she pleaded with him.

"Don't beg, Joan. It doesn't suit you." Thorin turned his back on them. Someone must have muffled her or knocked her out, because her words didn't follow him any further. The tunnel sloped gently downward in most places, sometimes giving way to stairs. Even in the pitch black, his eyes fed him faint outlines of doorways and curved arches.

Thorin breathed slowly and delved deep into his deductive reasoning. His only real fortress. Mountains and swords were all well and good when one faced an orc pack, but this was so much bigger. No matter what he told Joan or any of the rest... this thrill was what made him alive. This sense of imminent death was the force that made his heart beat.

Two options--either the dragon was alive, or it was dead. If it was alive, either it was here or it wasn't. Obviously, the 'not here' option could be ruled out. Someone would have seen an enormous, fire-breathing dragon leaving and said something about it. If it was here, which was the obvious conclusion, then either it was asleep, awake, or dead. Best not to count on dead, though that would be nice. Asleep was the most likely of the choices, considering the lack of activity in the Mountain over the last several decades. Awake was the most dangerous, and the most unpredictable.

At the base of the stairs ahead, there was a sharp turn in the tunnel, and a soft, red, glow. So the dragon was alive. Thorin paused, breathing evenly as he strained his ears for any hint of a sound. A breath. A heartbeat.

Nothing.

As silently as he could, the dwarf crept down the stairs and around the bend. There was the door to the treasury, and inside, the huge vault was illuminated by a ruddy glow, pulsing slightly at regular intervals. As far as the eye could see, there were mounds and piles and hills and mountains of gold. Plates, cups, chains, coins, bowls, crowns--sets of armor and magnificent weapons, precious gems and polished nuggets. Chests and casks and crates and barrels and wagons, all piled higher than they were ever meant to be filled, some half-buried in gold, others heaped together along the walls.

Thorin's mouth went a little dry. There was ten--no, at least twenty times as much gold in this hall than he remembered as a lad. Thror had been proud of his kingdom's wealth, but it had been nothing like this. And there, twined in and around and on top of the gold was an enormous red dragon.

He was long and very slender, much less bulky Thorin had imagined--a lithe, wiry thing despite being easily the size of several small hills by himself. Wings lay folded like a cape along his ridged back, and one huge forepaw rested on top of the smooth, blunt muzzle. Both eyes were shut. And now that he was standing in the room, Thorin could feel it; a deep, even rumbling, rhythmic and slow. The dragon was asleep.

The dwarf stood very still, processing, calculating. The odds were certainly not in his favor in this situation. The chances of actually finding the Arkenstone in the midst of all this were miniscule at best. And this wasn't exactly the best-case scenario. The chances of him finding the stone without waking the dragon were absolutely none. He needed to retreat, regroup, and formulate a new plan.

"Well, well... Thorin the Homeless." The old title dripped with delighted malice, and the deep voice shuddered through his bones, making him shiver. Thorin had been halfway through the doorway.

Now he turned and walked back the way he'd come, back toward the edge of the platform. The huge, ruddy head was lifting slowly, a cascade of coins and gems and other precious things sliding down the glittering slope as the dragon focused one jet-black eye on him. "What an honor for you to grace me with your presence. I never expected to have the pleasure. Welcome to my humble abode." The dragon inclined his head ironically, his tone saturated with irony.

"No, please... the honor is all mine." Thorin bowed in return, trying to calculate his chances of getting out alive. Not good.

"Do you remember me, Thorin? Of course, I was different then. I flatter myself to think I've changed quite a bit." The dragon arched his powerful neck, and Thorin could see thick ropes of muscle rippling down the length of his lithe body.

"Oh, yeah. Hardly recognize you at all."

"Say my name, princeling." The dragon was stretching and standing, and the sound of the coins, stones, and other glittering paraphernalia shifting and sliding was nearly enough to deafen Thorin. He stood his ground, though. Stood his ground and didn't say anything. "Oh, did I really make such a fleeting impression? Did you forget already, Thorin, son of Thrain?"

"What do you want, Moraug?" At this point, he wanted to delay, to keep him talking until the others were far, far from here. He could have dealt with the loss of one or two. Even half the Company would have been acceptable in the face of success. But Fili and Kili were never supposed to have been here at all, and Joan... his burglar. Losing her was not a cost he could balance in the end.

"Play a game with me, Thorin," coaxed the dragon, and his fangs gleamed in a predatory smile, the glow from his iridescent scales giving his features a strange, shadowless appearance. Almost flat. "Wandering and fighting, eternally homeless... you must be so bored. Come. Let's play."

"Is that what this is to you? A game?" Thorin had meant to keep things cool, play along, but the dragon's casual flippancy was touching off some deeply-buried fuse in his chest, reigniting the familiar old rage. "Hundreds of thousands of my people are dead because of you."

"Dwarves die, because that's what dwarves DO." The low rumble of Moraug's voice escalated suddenly into a roar that echoed and reechoed in the cavernous treasury. If the rest of the Company hadn't known before that they should be fleeing, they knew now. Coins, crowns, weapons, jewelry; the sound of metal on metal and metal on stone was beginning to sound to Thorin like a swarm of enormous snakes, rather than the reality of the gold he could see. "Come now, Thorin, don't be dull." The dragon paced forward, his reptilian body swaying as though he were swimming through the air, each leg swinging forward independently of the others.

Thorin made the decision, and before his brain could catch up with him to say it was a bad idea and the odds of survival weren't good, he moved away from the door, along the platform's edge to the stairs. It would have been quite a distance to the floor of the chamber, but the steps disappeared into the mountain of loose gold only a few dwarf-lengths from the top of the stone platform.

"I can see why you like common folk. Some of them can be cute, in spite of their empty heads." Moraug's voice rumbled through the warm darkness around them. As Thorin's boots touched the clinking gold, the dragon's head snaked around a thick pillar so one large black eye could fix on the dwarf's face, hovering just high enough that Thorin had to tip his head back to meet his dark gaze. "Don't see what use you have for them, though, when you can't even eat them when you're done. Shame, that. You would have made a splendid dragon."

"And what makes you say that?" Thorin's tone was skeptical. He nudged through the gold with his toe as he continued to move away from the stairs, drawing the dragon's attention with him.

"Oh... I've been hearing a lot about you, Thorin the Homeless. How you left kith and kin to wander the wilds, how your father went mysteriously missing, how you rejected the throne of Ered Luin in favor of a smith's hammer and tongs." Thorin felt a chill creep down his back as the dragon spoke.

"Who told you this? Who's your source?"

Moraug's laugh was deep and unpleasant as he withdrew his smooth, wedge-shaped head. The dragon was moving out of striking distance now, and the dwarf knew he'd just lost what could have been his only chance to put a spear through the creature's eye and end it forever.

"My source? How quaint." The dragon's fangs gleamed with their own dangerous luminescence as Moraug turned his head and started to pad down the enormous slope of gold. "So you think I pay people to bring me information. I'm disappointed, Thorin. Don't be so Second Age. Things are different now." The dwarf felt like he had no choice but to follow. Moraug was his source of light. And without him, he might fall. Without him, he might never get the answers. He needed the answers. So, like every intelligent person does when he doesn't know the answers, Thorin kept his mouth shut. It wouldn't have mattered anyway. The din of coin and gem, the clatter of plates and armor, would have drowned him out. Candlesticks. Urns. Lamps. Lamp stands. Thorin stepped over a crown he recognized as one of his father's and felt slightly sick. All this wealth, all this gold--it had no life.

"Do you know what happens, Thorin, to people who don't bring me what I want?" Moraug's earth-shakingly deep voice rumbled over the clattering avalanche that followed them. "Do you know what will happen to you, if you don't give up your little... Quest?" The dragon stepped off the gold onto the stone with a clatter of iron-hard claws. Padding out to a clear spot, he sat on his haunches, huge tail wrapping neatly around his forepaws, as though Moraug were some enormous, scaly cat.

"Don't tell me... you'll eat me." Thorin did his best to sound bored, but there was always the underlying fear--the thought that he might not succeed, that he might die without leaving any sort of legacy. That he might be forgotten, lost to the ages as the dwarf-king who did nothing.

"Oh, don't be so obvious," growled Moraug, lowering his forequarters to the stone and folding his paws under his glittering chest. "I was going to eat you anyway, eventually. But no. I'll burn you. I'll burn the _heart_ out of you." The great black eyes fixed on him and a haunting smile curved the lipless, scaly mouth. Thorin hesitated, considering his options.

"Ah... but your heart isn't here, is it?" Nearly purring the words, Moraug's eyes lit with the mad desire for a challenge, a desire Thorin himself had felt too many times to count.

"I've heard from reliable sources that I don't have one." Thorin casually picked up a long spear--a boar spear as it turned out. Crap for throwing, but a comforting weight in his hands. The dragon must have noticed, but didn't comment on it as he laughed deep in his glittering throat.

"But you and I know differently, don't we?" Moraug lifted his head and turned it lazily, eyeing the dark wall above them where the dwarf had entered. Thorin's heart did a backflip into his stomach at the thought of what might come next. A single jet of liquid flame, spilling down that tunnel, scalding and searing, melting flesh from bone. In a blink, his Company, his kin... his burglar... would all be gone.

"And what would happen if I put this spear through your eye right now?" Thorin's insides were a chaotic inferno, burning with fear and anger. Helplessness wasn't something he dealt with well, even under the best of circumstances. This wasn't the best of circumstances.

"Then you could cherish the look of surprise on my face, when a single dwarf accomplished what armies of your kin couldn't." There was bare contempt in Moraug's tone, as though he believed himself invincible. In many ways, he was. "My scales are my armor, thicker and stronger than iron. My teeth are swords, my claws spears, my wings a hurricane. My breath... death." Moraug's rumbling voice lowered to a hissing growl, and his throat pouch glowed ominously with the last word. "There's nothing you, or anyone can do to stop me. Even in death, I will be the Bane of the North, the Great Worm, Moraug the Golden." The dragon lowered his great head until he was on a level with Thorin, a single large, impossibly black eye staring into his face, piercing deeper than any blade.

"I could kill you." The dwarf was mildly surprised by how calm his voice sounded. Death was unavoidable. There was nothing he could do now to escape his fate. Hopefully, Fili would be leading the others far away. To Laketown, perhaps, to warn them of the danger. "I could kill you now, and my kin would be safe from you forever."

"And then you would never really know... would you?" Moraug purred softly, the rock vibrating under his massive body, his hot breath washing over Thorin, rank with the smell of burned and rotten meat.

"Know what?" Perhaps it was his own twice-blasted curiosity that stayed his hand. No, it was definitely his curiosity. Thorin held the spear ready, but didn't thrust it forward into the great eye, didn't bury the blade and haft deep in the winged demon's scintillating brain. He couldn't. Not without satisfying the burning need to know.

"You'll never know why it is that I did _this_." The huge tail flexed, its barbed tip swiping across the stone floor. Something white and shining clacked and clattered across the narrow gap between them and nearly bounced right past Thorin, but he trapped it with one booted foot, the same way he'd trapped the key when Joan had nearly kicked it over the edge. When he recognized the shining thing, it felt like his fingers had suddenly lost their strength. He tightened his grip on the spear, staring down at the Arkenstone. Disbelief surged through his veins, churning and stirring the empty confusion and fading anger, fear, and hate.

"Why?" Thorin's question barely passed his lips, struggling against his shock to wrestle a whisper from his immobile lungs. Moraug's deep, thrumming laugh rattled his bones, but Thorin couldn't let it rest. "Why? Why would you do this?" Harsh. Angry. Loud. It didn't make sense. This course of action didn't mesh with the dragon's known movements. This wasn't violent, it destroyed nothing, it hurt no one. It didn't make sense, and that drove Thorin mad. Moraug's laugh eventually faded, though the malicious smile didn't leave his scaly face.

"That would spoil the fun, wouldn't it? Go on, Thorin... take it. Let's call it... a birthday present."

Under the dragon's watchful eye, Thorin gripped his spear tighter with one hand, and stooped to pick up the large, white gem. It looked just like he remembered. It was shining like a tiny moon, nestled cool and smooth in his palm. He remembered how many evenings Thror had sat, polishing this very stone, holding it as though it were a newborn kitten. And indeed, out of all the precious things the dwarf had seen in his long life and longer travels, this was surely the most beautiful, the most precious of them all. Thorin stood quietly, looking at the stone, remembering his grandfather, and desperately searching his mind for any possible reason for the dragon to just give him the Arkenstone, knowing what it meant. Unless he didn't know what it meant. But even then, it made no sense. Why would a dragon give away a piece of his own hoard?

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Moraug's sly voice seemed to come from very far away, rumbling through the fog in his brain. "I can see why Thror loved it so. Loved it more, even, than his kin. Than his own kingdom."

"Shut up." Thorin brought the stone closer to his body and renewed his grip on the spear. Moraug chuckled, his throat pouch glowing again.

"What's the matter, Thorin? Don't like remembering Thror's madness?" A showering cascade of glittering gold fell from the slope. Dragon and dwarf turned in unison, but saw nothing on the shining hillside but shifting coins and gleaming gems.

Madness. Dragon-sickness. A sickness of the heart, a lust for gold. Insatiable greed. Thorin's posture stiffened. Suddenly it made sense. But before he could act on it, something hit him. Something fast-moving and small. Colliding with the small of his back, the something sent Thorin stumbling forward, his white-knuckled grip on the spear lending the weapon leverage--the blade plunged into the dragon's dark eye. Hot blood spilled from the puncture and Moraug reared back with an earth-shattering scream of pain, wrenching the spear from his grasp. Thorin whirled, trying to see what had him, trying to flee. And there was Joan, red-faced and panting. The hobbit's short curls were damp with sweat, and the area around her left eye was starting to darken noticeably.

"RUN, THORIN!" She had his spear-hand between hers and was tugging him violently toward the mountain of gold. Everything was happening so quickly, it felt like he was stuck in cold molasses.

"RUN!" His burglar was throwing her weight against his hand, and Thorin stumbled again. Away from the writhing dragon. Away from the immediate, fatal danger of being crushed or slashed in two. Toward the dark, glittering mountains of gold. Toward the door and the tunnel and the secret entrance.

The mad sprint up the shining, slippery hill of gold was a blur. The stairs passed like hurdles under his boots and he was vaguely aware of Joan behind him, pushing him along. For all that her legs were shorter than his, she was a quick little thing. Into the tunnel, the angry roar of a thwarted dragon deafening them. Moraug's steps crashed and clattered across the gold as he followed them, and Thorin could imagine his single, mad eye alight with murderous rage, his throat pouch glowing white hot. And suddenly the haze cleared. His mind resumed working and now he was the one dragging Joan along. The roar of flames bearing down on them made his beard prickle and he put on an extra burst of speed--out into the blinding light of day. Thorin threw himself to the side, pulling his burglar with him, and not a moment too soon as a torrent of flame bathed his boots. Fili grabbed one arm, Bofur the other, and together they hauled Thorin and Joan clear of the fire.

His last thought before slipping to blissful, painless blackness was that Joan had probably just saved his life. Again.

 


End file.
